


A Faint Wash of Lavender

by Lucius Parhelion (Parhelion)



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1940s, Fluff and Humor, Historical, M/M, Small Towns, Southern California, art colony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-01
Updated: 2011-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-23 08:14:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11398632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parhelion/pseuds/Lucius%20Parhelion
Summary: His old army buddy is coming to visit, but Tony isn't out in the streets shouting Hip, Hip, Hooray. No, he's going to act like a sensible, respectable guy. Too bad everyone else in Laguna Beach, from his aunt, through the local artsy types, to Ben himself have very different agendas.





	A Faint Wash of Lavender

 

I

Since neither of his older brothers was around to smack him in the head, Tony Guardi should have done the job himself once he realized what he'd gotten into. If he hadn't tried to be sensible, Ben and he could have avoided the St. Francis Crisis of 1948, which would have spared their nerves a lot of strain. Too bad that, for once, Tony had chosen to act like a respectable citizen of Laguna Beach. He might have known better.

To be fair, when the long-distance operator had put through Ben's call about travel plans, his taking the train into Los Angeles and then a bus down the Pacific Coast Highway had sounded like a nice, leisurely trip. Tony hadn't suggested much in the way of changes; he was Ben's army buddy and pen pal, not his wife. He didn't even offer to pick up Ben at Union Station, but found him a ride with Charles Erskine, one of Aunt Cora's gentlemen-friends who was always going up to L.A. on Fridays for the weird errands artists had in big cities.

No, Tony meant to show some sense. Sure, he was pleased Ben was coming to visit. That was fine. Fight your way across enough hostile French and German real estate with someone and you were allowed to like the guy, like him a lot. Tony just needed to watch out for the part of himself that wanted to sing, "It's Ben! Hip, hip, hooray!" while waltzing around like a drunk at a wedding reception.

He was done with those feelings. Hell, even before they'd mustered out three years back, Tony had known you didn't inflict sentimental mush -- let alone sentimental lavender mush -- on a buddy who was planning to become some kind of missionary out in the back of beyond once the war was over.

The years of separation should have solved his little problem. Even so, Tony would be smart. He would wait for Ben like any normal guy with a normal job, taking over for Arlene at register two as usual while she went off to eat a lunch of leftover tuna casserole. Of course, also as usual, every customer who could drive Tony crazy would promptly trot through the front doors of Brandon's Grocery Mart once Arlene was safely barricaded in the back room. Speaking of which--

"Afternoon, Mr. Freeland," Tony said, punching keys to ring up some tomatoes.

"Good afternoon, Tony. Have you heard the news?"

Sure, about four times already. "Mmm."

"John Harriman and Peter Nagle were up to mischief at rehearsal last night." Freeland didn't bother saying which show the rehearsal was for. Right now, there was only one show that mattered in this town. Instead, he drew himself up like a politician in front of a newsreel camera and said, "Mischief! At rehearsal. Pretending to be mountain climbers or some such nonsense. And do you know what happened?"

Tony did. "I heard--"

"They fell right through the pile of flats they were clambering over. And, of course, those flats were thin, thin as could be, thin as--"

"Soda crackers," Old Mrs. Peabody said from behind Freeland in line.

"Aisle Three," Tony told her.

"Thin as soda crackers," she said to Freeland, ignoring Tony. "I heard they broke their legs." Her words came out spiced with that extra special relish elderly ladies could spread across tales of young guys getting into messes.

"One greenstick fracture, one severe sprain," Freeland corrected her, sounding kind of pompous, if anyone had asked Tony his opinion instead of expecting him to ring up Kellogg's Corn Flakes. "But what will happen to the Pageant with those youngsters out of commission only two weeks before the opening, I do not know."

At this observation, a hush descended on the register line. Even Mrs. Walensky's youngest stopped swinging his mom's hand and humming "The Donkey Serenade" off-key.

The Pageant of the Masters had become, in its ten years or so of existence, a Very Big Deal. You really did not mess with Very Big Deals in fairly small towns, especially towns that needed places for tourists and summer residents to spend lots of money. Why so many visitors wanted to see the local citizens dressed up and standing absolutely still, pretending to be the people in famous paintings, Tony wasn't sure. But the Pageant was a huge hit and already a sacred cow as a result.

Tony tried reassurance. "I'm sure the director will find someone who can take over their roles." Before Freeland could explain to him why this would be horribly difficult, at length, Tony added quickly, "Two dollars and seventeen cents, please."

"Humph. Highway robbery."

With an apologetic shrug, Tony rang open the register with the usual mechanical clatter and said, "Prices are rising since the war. But at least you can get any kind of food you want. No rationing these days."

"I suppose. Well, we shall see what happens. With the Pageant, that is." Taking his bags of groceries and his change, Freeland marched out the doors with the air of someone who'd had the last word.

"Broke their legs in two places each, is what I heard," Mrs. Peabody said as she made it to the front of the line.

Swallowing a sigh, Tony started ringing up single cans of nine different varieties of Campbell's soup.

When Aunt Cora had asked Pa to ship a nephew west from Guardi and Sons Groceries to manage her recently deceased husband's store, Tony had thought the part of the job that would drive him insane was being stuck behind a desk for a big chunk of each day. Little had he known. By the time Arlene returned with her faint air of contentment and fish, Tony was ready to retreat into his office and go over register tapes and accounts.

Even with all the glancing up at the ticking clock overhead, he managed to get in a couple of solid hours of work before three o'clock rolled around and it was time to meet up with Ben. After one last glance at the time, Tony grabbed his suit coat and hat, locked up, and went into the canned goods aisle to hand over the keys.

Harry looked up from pricing canned vegetables. His gaze rose to the fedora before his eyebrows rose as well. "You off to a funeral?"

"No, I'm picking up an old army buddy at Rankin's Corner." Under Harry's assessing stare, Tony asked, "What, you want me dressed like a beachcomber?"

Slowly, Harry turned to gaze through the front windows at a beautiful, sunny day, the usual weather for this part of the coast. Customers were coming and going, a lot of the men without the hats they would have worn in most other towns. Then Harry turned to study Tony with a look that tried to speak volumes from the _Funk and Wagnall's Encyclopedia_ , which was typical.

The guy was a good evening manager, but he thought of himself as an artist because of the cheesy watercolors he painted in his spare time. Anyone around here who didn't think of himself as an unshakably solid citizen -- hah -- seemed to think of himself as some kind of artist – double hah. And they probably all had opinions of Tony's looks in a hat.

"Okay, fine." Tony snatched off his fedora and parked it on Harry's head. "I guess I'll see this on my desk Monday morning, and I don't mean dented." Then he went out the back door by the loading dock to fetch his car before anyone else could find a way of driving him nuts.

On your typical day, Tony walked to the store from his house above the beach, given all the good weather. Today, he hadn't known how much luggage Ben would have with him, so he'd brought the Mule to work. The car, a '46 Studebaker Coupe, didn't have much room, but jam-packed was still better than hiking home with suitcases.

Without too much protesting, the Mule started and took Tony the five blocks over to Rankin's Corner. He zipped past stuccoed buildings downtown, all gleaming a little in the sunshine against the brush covered hills. As usual during the summer, there were three times as many visitors in town as residents, with few of them up to the challenge of driving through someone else's downtown without dramatics. Even so, Tony made the trip with only one quick swerve around a DeSoto trying a U-turn in the middle of the block.

Pulling up to the curb beneath the famous gate fixed to a flag pole overhead, Tony whistled sharply through the open passenger-side window. Ben, who'd been browsing through a _Saturday Evening Post_ from the racks outside the drugstore, glanced up and smiled. Putting back the magazine, he heaved up the suitcase and duffle bags he'd stacked by his side. Tony piled out and opened the trunk; Ben slung in his bags and then tumbled into the passenger side even as Tony got the trunk closed and slid back behind the wheel. They were pulling out into traffic in maybe a minute. Nice work.

"That was fast," Ben said in his deep voice. Three years hadn't changed its comfortable rumble.

"You have to be fast with all the summer tourists who want to play bumper cars around this place. Any problems on the trip down from L.A.?"

"No. But I don't understand why Mr. Erskine didn't drop me off at your grocery store."

"Not my grocery store, which is the problem. My late uncle-in-law started the place as this town's version of a Piggly-Wiggly, and Erskine won't so much as set foot in its parking lot. He's still mad that Uncle Pete won the big competition for Aunt Cora's hand."

"Seems a touch temperamental."

"Sure. He's an artist. There are lots of 'em around here, all with their own little ways of doing things. You'll see."

"I suppose the art explains a lot. Why he kept sneaking glances at me all the way down the coast, for example." No surprise there: Erskine, as a painter, would know how much Ben deserved eyeballing, what with the well-shaped, scholarly features topping the tough, lean body, one not much changed three years later. Dark hair, blue eyes, high quality rump roast-- But Ben was still going with, "Where are we off to now?"

"My place. I'm done for the day, so I figured we could drop off your bags and then look around town a little. Take you out to dinner; do the usual first day, touristy stuff."

"Good. Since we haven't turned shy since we last saw each other--" Ben punctuated his sentence with an amused snort, barely audible over the engine and the street noises " --that'll give you the chance to ask your questions."

"What? What do you mean?" Tony rounded a corner in front of a gal who couldn't seem to decide if she and her Plymouth full of kids were turning left or not. Not yet, they weren't.

"When I telephoned to see if I could come out here, you didn't even ask how long I'd be staying. You can't tell me you don't have questions. And if you don't, you probably should."

"Hey, enough playing the older brother, okay? I'll ask questions. How long you staying?"

"Long enough to see if I can find a job. There's been a major change of plans. As it turns out, the pastoral courses were wasted. But the nursing degree might still do me some good." Ben fell silent, gazing out his rolled-down window at the eucalyptus trees they were passing.

Tony used the quiet that followed for a quick word with himself. No hollering hip, hip, hooray. No hollering hip, hip, hooray. Something bad had happened to Ben. "What went wrong with the medical missionary thing?" The subsequent hesitation lasted long enough for Tony to get the Mule onto to his own cul-de-sac and to remember that nosiness was rude. "You don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to."

"No, it's not that I don't want to. After all, I've already complained about more theological qualms in my letters than I ever noticed you caring about in Europe." There was another pause before Ben said with obvious reluctance, "I've left the Elder Zion River Brethren."

That was kind of a shock. Ben had been earnest enough about his rinky-dink denomination to have spent his war as an army noncombatant, a medic getting shot at but not shooting back, which took some serious commitment to his ex-church's pacifistic beliefs.

Having pulled them up onto his short and sloping asphalt driveway, Tony parked the Mule in front of the detached garage. He set the hand brake and turned sideways to face Ben. "Jeez. Tough luck, buddy."

"Yes." Ben's lips twisted. "Sorry to drag along extra baggage from back east, but--"

"Hey. Believe it or not, I know all about religious indigestion. Mine was a rigorous parochial education with the Jesuits. I was a big-time altar boy, my family's best chance at a priest. My grandmother still thinks I'm going to Mass. Walking away was hard. I don't stop doing anything without a struggle. You know that."

The faint hint of pain in Ben's blue eyes gave way to amusement. "Sure I do. You'd have brought along a typewriter all the way back from St. Vith if you could have."

"Yeah, but we needed ammunition on that retreat a lot more than up-to-date company records. Anyhow, if you've left your church or it left you, I get why California is a better idea than Pennsylvania. Moving can help things calm down. So, you might as well take advantage of the empty room over my garage for as long as you need it. Let's get your stuff up there."

They hauled the bags up the wooden staircase to the second story room over the detached garage. Inside, Ben stopped dead, and then slowly put down his duffle bag. "This isn't exactly what I'd expected."

The bare walls of the room were painted a creamy white above the pale oak wainscoting, all flooded with late afternoon sunshine from the four broad windows that looked out over the Pacific. The bed was a sturdy brass number that had once resided in the house, while the table, sofa, and dresser were good pieces left over from the twenties, if ones spattered with long-dried drips of color. Lots of color had gotten onto the floorboards, too, but Tony thought the result was weirdly inspired.

With a grin, Tony said, "As a bribe for me moving to California, Aunt Cora is selling me her old place instead of renting it out again. She got to Laguna Beach early enough that we're right on the sea cliffs here, in case you didn't notice. Since this was her studio, you have some space. There's even plumbing, for washing models and brushes, I guess, which will give you some privacy. If you can handle the spilled paint and the noise from the surf, it should be comfortable."

Ben had walked over to one of the windows, its sash open wide to air out the room. He stood there with his back to the room, seemingly staring out at the wide Pacific gleaming in the sunshine, for long, silent seconds before he turned and said, "Thanks. Yet again, you're saving my skin."

"Pfft. Saving your nerves, maybe. And that makes, what, seven or eight saves each? So, come over to the house, all five rooms of it, to learn the lay-out you'll be dealing with in the kitchen."

"Nonetheless. I'm glad I'll be around long enough not to have to rush...anything."

"Yeah, time is good. Now that you're here, you'll find you get better. There's a reason they ship sick people off to the shore to recover."

While they went over to the house, they kept the chatter light for a while, with Ben describing the bits of Southwestern scenery he'd seen from the train. Tony was demonstrating the trick to getting the one reluctant burner going by smacking the stove, when someone knocked a tattoo on the door from the back porch.

"Do you want me to answer that?" Ben asked.

"Huh." Tony went over to open the door. "I'd swear that was--"

"Kisses, darling," Aunt Cora said, and sailed into the tiny kitchen, followed by two of her usual train of courtiers. One was Charles Erskine, the fellow who'd given Ben a ride from L.A., and the all-too-familiar other was Joey Lowes, a guy from the Hollywood crowd who also moved in local lavender circles. All of a sudden, Tony's kitchen was downtown Laguna Beach. What the heck?

Cora had sailed right up to Ben and offered him both her hands, palm down. "You must be Ben. Tony mentioned you would be visiting."

"You must be Tony's Aunt Cora. He's described you in his letters." Gravely, Ben took one hand and shook it. Her silver bangles jangled sweetly.

She freed her hand from his grip to step back. "Oh, wonderful. Then we're not starting as strangers." Cora proceeded to survey Ben from head to foot with a thoroughness that could have made a statue blush.

Tony didn't have time to figure out what was on her mind, though; Cora's step back had triggered a domino effect that left him moving fast to keep from being squashed against the refrigerator. "Does anyone need a drink?" he asked, sounding kind of put-upon to his own ears.

"Not now, darling," Cora said absently, answering for all males present as was her habit. But she did turn away from Ben to examine Tony with the same critical eye she'd been using on Ben. "Well, well, well. Familiarity does lead to blindness. You were right, Charles."

"Thought so," Erskine said smugly, stroking his Van Dyke beard back into its point. "I'd spotted the other half of our solution even before Ben and I got through Long Beach." Ben craned over the guy's shoulder to give Tony a questioning look. Tony shrugged incomprehension in return.

Joey decided to be all chummy and helpful. "Haven't you heard about what happened to John Harriman and Peter Nagle, Tony? You're usually _au courant_."

Sure he'd heard, about four -- no, five -- times already. But Tony couldn't complain about Joey being so chummy, given the bars they both favored. He settled for saying, "Uh-huh. Two of them fell through some flats at a rehearsal. Limbs got injured, so they can't impersonate whatever paintings they were supposed to be in the Pageant. Very tragic." Then Tony stilled, struck by a horrible possibility.

Cora had turned her attention back to Ben. Right as Tony got his notion of what she might be thinking, she clapped her hands together and said, "A good resemblance, especially around the nose. And, really, Tony is nearer to the original than John Harriman was."

Ben's expression went quizzical, but he was too polite to interrupt with questions.

"St. Francis," Cora said, laying a gentle, relentless hand on his upper arm. "You'll make an excellent emergency St. Francis, Ben. Can I call you Ben? I do hope you were planning on staying in Laguna Beach for a while. That hair of yours is almost perfect."

 

II

Ben took a break from demolishing the last of his halibut to say, "I'm not sure how your Aunt talked me into this."

"It's a gift she has. If I'd had any idea Erskine was assistant director for the Pageant this year--" Tony trailed off, forcing himself to stop crumbling a leftover roll into teensy-tiny pieces. The White House Cafe was too nice a place for twitchy games with food. "The one good thing? You may end up with a job."

"Oh?"

"I snuck Cora outside while Erskine and Joey were debating your skin tonalities to let her know that you'd need work if you were going to stick around for the entire Pageant. She's acquainted with everyone around here, including the local bigwigs. If there's a nursing job to be had, you'll hear about it."

"Is that playing fair?"

"Fair? Why not? You were a great medic. You think you'll be a bad nurse?"

"I'm green. I'm new to this state, I got my diploma and certification as part of working toward something else, and I'd be a man doing a woman's job, which some folks object to."

"Less of a problem in this town than in many." Ben's quizzical look deepened into curiosity, and Tony waved a hand. "But that's not important right now. You want dessert?"

"Is there time? I thought we hadn't finished my tour yet. By my count, we've seen three beaches, one theater, three potteries, a pottery school, a woodcarving school, numerous art studios, an art center, an art school, art galleries, and a photography studio, along with the usual small-town businesses. Seems as if we missed the woodcarving center and the photography school."

"Ha, ha, very funny. Might I point out, the photography studio _was_ a photography school? No, all we have left for this evening is attending that special rehearsal they set up. Besides catching us up on how to be famous paintings, Cora told me Joey will take our measurements so the costumes can be altered to fit."

Ben rolled his eyes. "Oh, that will be utterly lovely. Should I skip dessert?"

Was Ben's sarcasm pointed toward Joey? Probably not; likely it was only the fancy dress he was protesting. "Your loss, wise guy. The pie is good here."

"Another time. You go ahead."

For some reason, Tony's stomach was suddenly a mess. "Nah. I'm not that big on sweets."

"All right." Ben scraped up one last morsel of halibut, chewed, swallowed, and said, "I'm still not clear on how this works. We get dressed up like characters in a painting. We stand around on a stage. Then what?"

"It's not quite that simple. First, we get out onto the stage in the dark and into the backgrounds without tripping and killing ourselves. Then, we stand still. The lights go on. Ta-da: we're a painting. A guy talks about the painter and the history and stuff. We stand still some more. There's music. The audience applauds."

"That's it?"

"Except for sneaking away when the lights go out, yeah."

"Really?"

"It's art. The tourists love it." At Ben's doubtful look, Tony shrugged. "Hey, I don't know. Something about getting the true humanity of the portrayal out where it can be seen. I've heard the sets, costumes, and make-up are pretty complex. It's not easy to make a real gal look like a flat Mona Lisa." Tony had gotten his lecture on the topic directly from Joey, who had something to do with studio costuming up in Hollywood and something to do with the Pageant down here. At the time, Joey had been buying him a drink in the bar at the Coast Inn, a place patronized by both military men and fey types, but Ben didn't need that kind of detail.

Ben still seemed kind of dubious, which just went to show he was no dummy. "Do you know anything about this painting we're supposed to be imitating?"

"Two paintings. They always do _The Last Supper_ for a finale, and I think we may also have to be disciples. Or do I mean apostles?"

"Disciples. Da Vinci's _Last Supper_?"

"Uh-huh. Leonardo's _The Last Supper_."

"Even I know that one." Ben shook his head. "What's this other painting we're talking about, the one of Francis of Assisi?"

He rightly figured that Tony had the better chance of having seen the painting in question. Some of the Guardi who weren't grocers or glaziers worked as commercial artists, while the Elder something-or-other Brethren didn't seem to be big on either paintings or saints.

Even so, Tony was forced to admit, "I don't know. Maybe it's one of Giotto's murals?"

That was when their waiter, who had just shown up with their check, decided to chime in. After all, this was Laguna Beach, so he probably moonlighted hand-painting pots or something, making him qualified to butt in on other people's art discussions. "Excuse me, were you talking about Pete Nagel's painting? I heard it was a Caravaggio." Tony goggled at the guy who was now asking, "Did you gentlemen want dessert?"

Caravaggio. Of course, it had to be a Caravaggio.

As they headed across the parking lot toward the Mule, Ben asked, "Didn't Caravaggio do a painting of Christ being lowered from the cross? I think I saw a print of that while I was still at the College of the Anointed."

"Yeah. Yeah, he did." Not to mention several famous portraits that Tony had seen reproductions of in various all-male households, ones of cute young men being really obvious. Some things never changed, and it seemed like the come-hither look must be one of those eternal truths. They were lucky this St. Francis painting was religious art.

"I wish we weren't mimicking sacred art," Ben said. "I'd be more comfortable imitating a nice, straightforward portrait."

No, he wouldn't. "Could be worse by Brethren standards. Could be, I don't know, Rembrandt's take on Jesus."

"That's true enough, although, strictly speaking, I have no right to use the Brethren's standards as grounds for complaint any more. I hope you won't have any problems."

"I doubt it. St. Francis and all. I'll probably be doing nothing worse than wearing a brown robe and admiring the way you can make your pitch to a bunch of birds."

"I guess we'll know soon enough."

The special rehearsal would be up at Aunt Cora's new place, the fancy one she'd helped Uncle Pete build with all his money from his various business ventures around town. Property in Laguna Beach seemed to come in two basic varieties: small and steep. Cora's house was built on the latter, where there was room to meet her strict and detailed requirements.

They drove up the hillside road to where the big Mediterranean Revival house loomed over a sloping lot landscaped with vines and shrubs. There were already two cars parked on the short driveway in front of the garage by the street, so Tony pulled the Mule up to the curb and cut the wheels sharply before he set the brakes, not wanting to introduce his car to someone else's front hallway down the road. Then they had to walk up a flight of stairs that went beneath two stuccoed archways before ending up on an arcaded and red-tiled porch by the front door.

"This is a fancy place," was Ben's only comment.

"And getting fancier the longer we stand here, knowing her friends and the way they ship back souvenirs from their travels. Don't trip over any knickknacks: it's painful, and you'll end up knowing more details than you want about other folk's handicrafts." Tony rang the door chimes.

They were let in by Anita, Cora's housekeeper. She looked at Tony with a frown dialed one notch past the usual dubiousness.

"What?" he asked her. Was there chowder on his shirt or something?

"I suppose there's a resemblance," she said, "although I never would have guessed. Everyone's in the upstairs living room. You're to go on up." She gestured toward the Tlingit mask on a plinth by the foot of the stairs.

On the way up the stairs and along the upper landing, they passed several paintings. Ben paused to examine them all. After the fifth, he said, "Lots of landscapes."

"The light and water around here are what drew in the older bunch. Some of them were pretty good, kind of impressionistic. A couple still are good, but they're getting crowded out by the artists the tourists favor and by the not-so-good amateurs. Now it's all providers to the tourist trade, would-be bohemians, Hollywood types, and retirees around here."

Ben tilted his head. "For a fellow who complains about artists, you sure seem to know a lot about them."

"For a guy who was going to be a minister, you sure seem tolerant of this town's artistic brand of craziness."

"I always was too worldly. Too lax."

"Yeah, and I always liked to know what I was complaining about, so I could take good aim. What else is new?"

They glanced sideways at each other. Tony realized they were both trying to hide smiles. Then, by silent and mutual consent, they turned away from the painting and finished their walk along the landing.

The furniture in the upstairs living room looked as if the ten best items from a bunch of exotic second-hand stores had been positioned along white-washed walls by someone who couldn't decide between taste and a sense of humor. But there was a lot of empty space in the middle of the broad-planked floor; the Chinese carpet had been rolled back. As they entered, Cora and her two courtiers looked up from examining some big book of art they had open on the coffee table as they sat parked in a row on her ox-hide couch.

Cora stood first. "Here you are." She sounded pleased. For an artsy type, she liked promptness.

"We skipped dessert," Tony said.

"Oh, darling, you didn't have to do that. I know how much you adore the strawberry pie at the White House."

Tony flicked his gaze over to Ben, who radiated amusement, daring him to say a word. Then he looked back at Cora and said, "We knew we had a fitting."

"That you do," Joey said, suddenly all business. He got up and, from somewhere, produced a cloth measuring tape, a notebook, and a pencil. After an assessing look, he approached Tony while Cora started interrogating Ben about his first impressions of Laguna Beach.

"I like the beaches and the ocean," he told her. "I haven't ever gotten to spend much time around the sea."

"So crowded these days. Still lovely, though. I'm sure Tony will show you the ways down the cliffs to the little coves where fewer tourists go."

"Sure," Tony said, raising his arms for a chest measurement. "In fact, three doors down from us, there are stairs to the beach you can see out your windows. He's in your old studio," he added at Aunt Cora's enquiring look.

She smiled at Ben. "The seawater is rather cold on this coast, I'm afraid. Do you swim?"

"Well enough to survive falling into a river," Ben told her. Now his gaze flicked over to meet Tony's. They clearly both remembered the German river in question. That crossing had been rough, what with all the sniper fire from the forested bluff on the opposite shore. Even so, Ben had come wading back out from his informal dip with the wounded combat engineer he'd gone in after, luckily before any enemy artillery found the range.

Cora cleared her throat, snapping Tony back to the present. "Given that, you shouldn't have too many problems."

"I'm glad to say I won't have too many problems, either," Joey said from where he had knelt to take Tony's leg measurement. "You haven't gained much weight since your military stint, I'd wager," he added, patting Tony's knee. After writing down what seemed to be the last number he needed, he stood to advance on Ben, who regarded him with a placid look that Tony knew concealed nervousness. "You're next, Sergeant St. Francis. Time to stand to attention."

Joey never could resist that little dab of lavender. Tony bit back a sigh, but all he said was, "So, are we in the Pageant finale?"

"Oh, yes," Erskine said absently. "You'll be--" He pulled a scrap of paper out of his pocket.

Not Judas, Tony thought. That would be bad for Ben right now.

"Ben will be Bartholomew, who you may know as the apostle standing at far left of the Last Supper. Tony, you'll be posing as Phillip, the disciple on the right side of Jesus, holding both hands to his chest." He shrugged and put the paper away. "I can never keep them all straight without my notes."

"Am I going to have to wear a beard?" Ben asked.

"Beards aren’t so bad," Joey said with a wink over Ben's shoulder at Tony. "One of my lovely lady volunteers will take care of yours for you. The ladies have deft hands with spirit gum. Stand with your weight evenly distributed between both feet, please." He got down on his knees again and smiled up at Ben. "At least I don't have to ask you which side sir wears himself on, since you'll be entirely in robes."

Ben looked puzzled for a few seconds and then his lips quirked. "Maybe I should ask for a copy of those numbers. I'll need a new suit for job interviews."

"Better than that, I'll give you the address of the shop you should visit. Tell them Mr. Lowes sent you." This time, Joey dusted off his knees when he got up. "Done. They're all yours." This was directed to Cora and Erskine, who were now huddled together, conferring in low voices, in the center of the room.

"Can I borrow some chalk before you go?" Erskine asked.

"You make me feel like such a boy scout sometimes," Joey told him before producing a short stick of chalk and handing it over. "Always prepared. Here you go. Darling Cora, I have to be off to the fairgrounds stage to see what disasters have ensued in my absence." They exchanged kisses to the cheek. "Tony, don't you be a stranger. Bring Ben over to dinner sometime in the next few weeks." With a sort of general wave, he sauntered out the doors.

Tony blinked with surprise. Joey had never invited him to dinner before, only for more casual and carnal visits. He turned to Ben to gauge his reaction to the invitation and found Ben standing by the open book on the coffee table, frowning down at it with his brow wrinkled. Uh-oh. Tony went over to his side and checked to see what the cause for concern was.

Okay, St. Francis. But he wasn't preaching to the birds. He was sprawled back, eyes closed and hands gently curled, cradled in the arms of an angel. Tony glanced down at the caption. "St. Francis of Assisi in Ecstasy." Oh, great. Desperately, Tony searched for something distracting to say. "Whoopee. I get to wear a diaper. And pigeon wings."

"Don't be juvenile, darling," Cora said, not looking up from whatever Erskine was drawing with chalk on the floorboards. "It's wrapped drapery. You can see where the cloth goes up and over the angel's shoulder." She did look up when she asked Ben, "Can you believe that Tony was the most artistically sensitive of all my nieces and nephews when he was a boy? You'd never know that now."

Ben stole a fast peek at Tony, his eyes amused. "I was telling him earlier he seemed to know a lot about art."

Well, at least Ben wasn't still staring down at St. Francis having a really good time with religion. Even so, shielded from Cora's line of sight by his position, Tony threw Ben a rude gesture.

"It's just as well he retains more than his share of the usual Guardi good looks," Cora continued blithely, "or this wouldn't work. Pay attention to the postures and expressions, Tony, not the costumes."

Trying not to hunch his shoulders at Cora's reproof, Tony made himself study the painting some more. "If those are your idea of good looks. He seems about sixteen. The angel, I mean, around the face."

"Make-up will help," Erskine said without looking up from whatever he was sketching. "Although you do have youthful features. And you are the right size and build."

Ben pursed his lips, considering. "Those wings will be something. I wonder how they'll be fixed onto your back." He shook his head. "And I don't know how you're going to hold that half-kneeling pose."

"I've seen you brace up guys like that." Wounded guys going onto stretchers.

"Not for long."

"You'll have supports that the audience won't be able to see," Erskine put in. "Now. If you two will come over here? And would you fetch those pillows you mentioned earlier, dear Cora?"

"Of course."

At least Ben didn't seem worried about the topic of the painting, Tony told himself, as Erskine and Cora pushed them into position on top of the chalk markings. Maybe the Brethren didn't do religious ecstasy. Absently, he shifted his right knee at Cora's prompting touch. He'd sat for her a few times as a kid, before his brothers had warned him that, given his looks, he'd better toughen up and drop the artsy stuff. For all the good that had done. Anyhow, this wasn't anything new.

"I feel as if you're going to drop me," Ben said without opening his eyes. He had really long eyelashes this close up. He was also warm and smelled of a day spent beneath the seaside sunshine, of salt and clean male sweat. Good thing he was heavy, too.

"Yeah, well, your big head is squashing my left arm."

Erskine snorted. "Loving ministration, Tony, not exasperation."

Ignoring him, Tony told Ben, "I'm starting to pity angels. No wonder they need the wings, what with the gigantic, hulking, lumpy loads they're expected to support."

Ben snickered, and Erskine said, "Peaceful revelation, Ben, not infantile amusement. Lowered eyelids, both of you. Do you need to see the reproduction again?"

"No thanks," Tony said hastily, as Ben quickly chimed in with, "No, that won't be necessary." And why was everyone calling Ben by his first name? He had a perfectly good last name. Tony forced himself back into his pose.

There were a few long seconds of silence before Ben said, "My nose itches."

Tony snorted, trying not to let his expression slip as he did. "Tough."

All of a sudden, Ben opened his eyes to look up, his gaze alight with pleasure and affection.

Caught off-guard, Tony stopped peering under his eyelids and opened his own eyes wide in an involuntary smile before blinking with bemusement once or twice. Then he scowled.

"Tony," Cora almost wailed. "Please try to be sensitive and artistic. Just a little. For a while."

"Sorry, sorry," Tony said and hastily composed himself. "Better?"

"Yes," Erskine said. "Now hold your positions for more than five seconds, please."

Without moving his lips, Ben somehow managed to mutter very softly, "I was right. Thought so."

Right about what? Thought so what? Oh, Ben was in for it now.

Tony had a nice, long pause to contemplate how in for it Ben would be as soon as they were done before Erskine said, "Good. Now get up as quietly as you can, please."

They got up, not particularly quietly. Ben stretched. Tony asked, "We done here?"

"Good heavens, no. You have to practice getting into and out of those poses enough times that the blocking is firmly fixed in your minds. After all, we don't want you unduly slowing the general rehearsal tomorrow. Also, your fellow actors would be grateful if you didn't sound like a stampede of buffalo."

Feeling a little panicked, Tony glanced over at Ben. Ben gazed back cryptically, his assessing look more like that stupid angel's expression in the painting than Tony's would ever be.

Since they weren't supposed to be posing right now, Tony felt free to glare. They would just see how Mr. Seraphic Smart-Aleck would be doing after two hours of these monkey-shines.

And right about what? What had Ben been talking about?

III

"I don't think I've been this sore since Basic," Ben said, breaking the silence. "Everything, including my _gluteus maximus_ , aches." He waved emphasis at the U.S.D.A. Prime _gluteus_ in question with the shoes he was carrying, his gesture visible even in the dark.

"You could have complained," Tony retorted. "It's not like you're actually a saint or anything."

They had both been too restless after all the rehearsing to go straight back to the house like sensible guys and get some sleep, so Tony had volunteered to introduce Ben to their local scrap of beach. After clambering down the umpteen wooden stairs someone had built against the cliff, they were now walking barefoot along the stretch of shore exposed by the low tide, toes digging into firm, wet sand and the occasional patch of kelp.

Even this late, you could make out where you were in the dim light seeping down from the streetlights and houses above, but Tony still navigated mostly by glints reflected from the dark swells, and by the faint glow of white foam as waves broke and receded. Every once in a while, cold seawater would wash up around their bare feet and then run back down to the ocean, hissing along the sand. They'd strolled for a minute or two without speaking, left alone at this late hour with the sound of the surf.

Seemingly, Ben now felt like chitchat. "No. I'm not any sort of saint." His voice was a little sadder than Tony preferred.

"You're more of a saint than I am an angel," he said, trying for some distraction. "All that practice was likely a waste. They'll get me into those pigeon wings, and I'll go right over onto my ass the first time I squat down into the proper pose."

"Please don't drop me on the stage when that happens. My hospital work included some bad examples of the results of concussions."

"So, I'll find you a first aid kit."

"Still the best scavenger in the company."

"Comes from having been repple-deppled from an Air Corps supply clerk into the infantry right before Normandy."

"You always were able to find me whatever I needed."

"Hey, I might have had a use for those bandages myself. Self-interest."

Ben had stopped walking. "I was hoping you'd do that for me one last time. Find me what I needed."

"Sure, sure, keep the room as long as you want. If Aunt Cora gets you a job, though, you're paying rent. Which means I should soon have money to burn, given her ability to glad-hand and make telephone calls."

Ignoring this attempt at diversion, Ben said, "She's not the only one who seems to meet everyone around this town. Mr. Lowes was interesting."

Tony swallowed. Then he noticed his own nervousness and felt his jaw firm up before he used it to say, "Joey's a great guy under all that swanking around."

He didn't know what to expect in reply, but it wasn't, "I got that impression, yes."

"He invited us for dinner. We should go. I've heard he sets a great table."

"I'm sure he does." Ben turned and started walking again. Tony, caught by surprise, had to skip to catch up, right as Ben added, "He reminds me very much of a man I met while I was doing some of my nursing training last summer in Philadelphia."

Philadelphia? Ben met a guy like Joey in Philadelphia?

But Ben changed subjects again. "I'd like to believe my theological qualms were my biggest problem with Brethren ways, or even the endless church politics. I truly would. But it didn't help that the Elder Brethren strongly prefer their missionaries married."

Now, wait a minute. "Is there some reason you're telling me this?"

"A few. A few reasons." Ben paused. "Shouldn't I be telling you?"

Tony could feel his mouth dry and his pulse speed up even as he asked, "What is this, _Take It or Leave It_? I'll win cash prizes for my answers? And since when have you joined the list of people trying to drive me nuts? Come on, Ben. Just say whatever it is you're trying to say."

"I'm trying to say--" Ben trailed off and cleared his throat.

"Fine. Is it bigger than a breadbox?"

"Not animal, vegetable, or mineral. Nothing a believing member of the Brethren should be doing, either." Ben was picking up speed. He was also sounding really tense. Tony had run out of time for coyness or nerves.

He raised the hand holding his own shoes in a signal to halt. "Whoa, there. You're thinking you’re a homosexual."

"Tony, the man in Philadelphia I mentioned was the third of his kind I let buy me a ginger ale. But he was the first who Mr. Lowes reminds me of, a great guy under all the... the you-know. And just in time. The first man wouldn't speak of anything but what he wanted to do, and the second offered me money afterward. I was feeling--" Ben cleared his throat. "In any case, I don't think I'm a homosexual, I know it. I triple-checked to be sure."

"Forget about trying to drive me nuts because you have succeeded." Taking a deep breath, Tony said, "I bet you told me this because you're thinking I'm also a homosexual."

"Aren't you?"

Tony found he was waving away the question, with all its desolate undertones, as if it was a particularly annoying fly. "Yeah, yeah, okay, you were right. We're all lavender on this beach. I'm more worried right now about how you're doing. Did the Brethren find out? Was there some sort of scandal? Were you given the bum's rush?"

"No. Nothing like that." At least the weird undertones in Ben's voice were gone. "If anyone suspected something of the sort, they never said a word to me. Not that there weren't problems, but I left because I wanted to. I chose to."

"And came to me."

"I thought maybe-- There was something about the way I'd catch you looking at me sometimes, back in the Ardennes, after we'd fumbled our way through another bloody mess."

"Arrrgh!" Tony barely managed to stop himself from throwing his shoes into the Pacific Ocean. So much for not inflicting sentimental mush, brand lavender.

"If it's any help, I thought at the time it was nothing more than profound friendship, the harmony of souls. Harmony on both sides."

"You'd better be feeling some harmony on your side. You'd just better."

"But there was more than pure friendship going on, something rawer. It took me years, sore knees, and some bad nights, but now I guess I know what."

"If I ever meet that third guy in Philadelphia, I'm either going to shake his hand or stuff a grenade down his shorts. Maybe both, although the grenade would be mean."

There was a brief pause. Then, shaky amusement in his voice, Ben asked, "What about the first two?"

"Grenades. Nothing but grenades."

Ben choked back a pained laugh. "I figured I'd have plenty of time to be careful out here, to make sure I wasn't fooling myself about you before I said anything. This evening, though. That pose and the expressions on your face, so close. It was killing me."

"Yeah, well." Tony kicked some sand, irritated to find he felt like a kid praised for his marble shooting by the cute girl next door who could whistle through her teeth. "What's killing me is that you fingered me before I fingered you."

"This town and your local acquaintances had a lot to do with giving you away. You haven't changed much, but everything stands out better against an unfamiliar background." Ben always had been smart, too smart for his own good.

They had almost reached the far end of the cove from the stairs, where the cliff curved out into a point and the beach ended in rocks and sea. "Let's turn around." After more walking, Tony said, "You know, I don't talk much about this kind of stuff. But, for you, I'll make an exception."

"We always could chew over topics besides baseball, army service edition paperbacks, things to trade our ration cigarettes for, and what to eat first when we got back Stateside. It should have told me--"

"Hey, my turn now. Sure, I did wonder about you once or twice, but you had plans, ones you cared about. So, I'm going to play, uh, Brethren's advocate for a minute. You could still be a missionary. Believe me, there are lots of guys who keep wearing the backwards collar after letting other guys buy them a ginger ale."

"I don't think so. For one thing, marriage?"

"Okay, I wouldn't, but men like us do, a lot. Also, if you get killed off as a missionary in the jungle somewhere, you go out a saint. You won't earn that label in this life. Lavender types--" No, he should be blunt with Ben, "--we homosexuals break so many rules just by daring to breathe that obeying all the rules left over doesn't earn us much. We kind of have to help ourselves, including in the so-called romance department."

"I was already getting that impression."

"Back in Philadelphia."

"Back in Philadelphia."

"The city of brotherly love. Jeez, there's an old joke." Tony shook his head, not caring if Ben could see him or not. "Let's go up to the house. I don't know what I was thinking. This kind of talking should be done indoors, where it's only crazy and not dangerously crazy."

He was pretty sure where all this was heading, now. His only remaining question was if Ben had spotted their destination, too.

They had climbed about halfway back up the stairs when Ben asked, "Is there some reason that Mr. Lowes is so obvious? I thought that was also dangerous." He wasn't even winded, the bastard.

He still deserved an answer. "Joey's not as obvious to everyone as you'd think. You're starting to know what to look for." A few more steps without talking, so he could catch his breath, and Tony added, "This town is safer than most, likely due to all the would-be artists. After a while everyone, including the cops, goes numb. Also, eccentricity brings in more tourists and their wallets, which is good. You could say the faint wash of lavender blends in with all the local color."

"Is that why you moved out here?"

"Sort of. There's less for me to worry about in a town like this, so far from most of my family." They were almost to the top of the stairs before Tony could bring himself to add, "I also came out here meaning to be more honest. As much as a guy like us can." After a pause, he said, "I'm still working on that."

Ben grunted understanding. Somehow the sound was more comforting than three paragraphs of intelligent sympathy.

At least Mrs. Peabody's miniature poodles didn't bark and wake up the entire neighborhood as he and Ben walked by her bungalow in the dark. But it was a pain to realize when they got back to the house, that Tony hadn't put away the Mule.

"Hey, is that something on your car?" Ben asked.

"Huh. Yeah." In the dark, the object sitting on the hood bulked large. Turned out, it was a lumpy package wrapped in butcher's paper and string.

"Do you want to check that upstairs where you can see what you're doing?"

"Let me get the Mule stabled first."

After locking the padlock on the garage doors, Tony climbed the flight of outdoor stairs -- he didn't let himself groan -- to Ben's room.

Ben was moving the contents of his suitcase into the dresser drawers when Tony entered. "The package is on the couch," Ben said without stopping what he was doing. "It's addressed to you."

Sure enough, it was, and Tony thought he recognized the handwriting. He cut the string with his penknife and ripped away the paper. He wasn't really surprised to see his fedora with a note tucked into its ribbon band.

_Tony:_

_I shouldn't have ragged you about the fedora. A man's haberdashery is a part of his style, even if that style might say things he doesn't know he's saying._

_Did we really have to order all that succotash?_

_Harry_

"Why the hat?" Ben asked, straightening up from his suitcase with a pair of socks in his hands.

"Oh, one of my employees dropped it off. He's still trying to drive me nuts with his artistic temperament. He doesn't know you got there first." Picking up the fedora, Tony plopped it onto his head. "Gimme the truth. Does this suit me?"

To give Ben credit, he took a good, long look before he replied, "Something about the way your hair sneaks out beneath the brim when you get it seated properly-- Well, it increases your resemblance to that Caravaggio. Not that you don't look good, but you look years younger, too."

"What a waste." Taking off the fedora, Tony spun it across the room toward the windows. "If you only knew how much time I spent trying not to be delicate and pretty when I was that seraph's age. Not that all the effort helped in the end, considering what else was going on."

With a shrug, Ben said, "I doubt I'll ever think of you as delicate or pretty whether you act like Mr. Lowes or not. The first time I saw you, you were covered in blood and swearing like a sailor. But the tourniquet you'd had the presence of mind to improvise around your Sergeant's leg was working, so I didn't care. I guess exposure to the inner man can override looks or mannerisms." He got out a second pair of socks and examined them. "Is it too warm for wool in Laguna Beach?"

"Ben?"

"Yes?"

"Put down the socks, okay?"

Although something behind his eyes seemed to flame into light, Ben asked, "Do you have something against socks?"

"When they're between me and some guy I mean to make a move on, yeah, I do. Any objections? This too raw?"

"Might I point out, I didn't check, I didn't double-check, I triple-checked," Ben said, tossing the socks after the fedora.

"So, not too raw. Remember to tell me if you stop having fun."

"I'll do that," Ben said, intercepting Tony's advance right around the location of the splatter of blue paint on the floor that looked like a hippopotamus.

Holy cow, maybe it was just as well Ben had given up on the missionary idea. He was a brushfire waiting to happen. He not only assumed kissing was okay without asking, but his hands immediately wandered around like they belonged to an overenthusiastic octopus.

Not that Tony was complaining. He had to force himself to free his lips long enough to ask, "You going to hold on to that all night or are you going to give it some room to maneuver?"

Ben stopped nuzzling Tony's right ear and pulled back far enough to stare at him. He seemed kind of dazed for the few seconds before he cleared his throat, pulled his hand off Tony's groin, and said, "Oh. Sorry."

"There is no sorry here," Tony retorted, walking his own fingers down the fly of Ben's trousers. "There is only fun or even more fun. Let's find out what's more fun."

Given the hard bulge beneath Tony's fingers, Ben didn't need subtlety right now. Tony dropped to his knees with the ease of long practice. Undoing Ben's belt and zipper only took a few seconds, but after he freed Ben's cock from his clothing, Tony paused to enjoy the good, close view he had always wanted.

The cock in his grasp shifted ever so slightly. Ben said, tone mild, "I feel like the daily discount special."

"No discount on you, fella. I don't discount what's beyond price."

To divert Ben from the accidental mush, Tony tried the direct approach. He ducked his head, parted his lips and took all that good, firm warmth into his mouth. As he sucked Ben in deep, the harsh grunt he got in return was one hell of a reward.

Ben had obviously had this done to him before. He didn't say so, but he also didn't yank Tony's hair or thrust hard enough to cut off the oxygen. Not that Tony would have minded. The raw sounds Ben kept making, the taste of his skin, and the way his strong, lean hips flexed under Tony's grip were enough inspiration that near-choking thrusts would have been nothing but a challenge. Making a mental note for possible future fun, Tony eased most of the way off Ben's cock to tongue a few of the more popular locations. Ben's entire body shuddered, and his eyes closed. Tony felt his own cock harden a little more in response.

He was caught by surprise when Ben opened his eyes, and asked, "Could you--?" Ben's voice was hoarse, and he swallowed rather than finishing his question.

"I bet I could, but what exactly are we talking about?" Too bad Tony had to let loose to speak, but he went ahead and wrapped a hand around the now spit-slick cock so he could work it a little and keep Ben from feeling too lonely.

A familiar expression of determination crept across Ben's features. "Tony. Fuck me."

It was as if someone had suddenly dialed up a thermostat about thirty degrees. Tony swallowed and his pulse pounded dizzyingly in his ears. So, he was amazed to hear himself ask, "What, you were saving yourself?"

"What, I shouldn't have waited to see if someone I trusted would be willing to do it right? I guess I could have started with the guy who wanted to pay me, but--"

"Okay, okay. Although Mr. Welcome to Brotherly Love--"

"He taught me to, well, to do it to him instead." Ben made what he probably thought was a descriptive gesture. Seemed as if he had used up his ration of 'fuck' for the day on Tony, maybe even his ration of 'fuck' for the decade, given how little he'd sworn back in the military. God, that was a steamy thought. But now Ben was frowning as he said, "I guess I should have asked if you like that, that end of it."

"Oh yes, I do. A big affirmative." Tony leaned forward for a temporary farewell to the cock in front of him, one employing lots of lip and tongue action. Then he pulled his mouth slowly free, enjoying both the lewd sound effects and the sight of Ben's slight trembling, before he said, "Bed."

Smooth and easy, Tony chanted silently to himself a few minutes later. Smooth and easy, smooth and easy, and thank God for Cornhusker's Lotion. How he was managing to go this slowly with Ben face down beneath him, hips propped up on a pillow, ass slowly yielding to his entrance, Tony wasn't sure.

Ben said something muffled as his fists clenched into the bedclothes.

"Didn't. Get that. Tell me later. Unless it was 'ow' or 'cut it out'." Tony's voice shook some as he spoke. Who cared?

"Nuh-uh."

"Then it's time to get fucked."

"Uh-huh."

Tony tried easing back a little and pushing home again, checking to make sure he had found the good angle. Ben's latest grunt was enthusiastic, very enthusiastic, so Tony tried thrusting some more. After that, the details started to blur into heat, skin, and sweat.

It wasn't long before Tony groaned his climax into Ben's back, grinding his hips into the ass beneath him harder than he probably should have. Tony was just glad he had enough thinking left to get a hand beneath them and finish off Ben. Even though Tony had almost come his brains out, the gasping, choking sounds Ben made as he spent all over Tony's fingers and the third-best spare pillow were still inspiring.

After a minute or two, enough of his brain recovered for Tony to ease out gently and get off the bed and onto his feet. Ben was still communing with the bedclothes beneath him, his eyelids shut and his face relaxed, so Tony rubbed a hand across Ben's shoulders. He was relieved to see Ben smile a little without opening his eyes. Huh. Darned if he didn't look a little like that stupid painting.

In any case, Ben's relaxation left Tony free to go clean up, put on his clothes, and fetch a washcloth. When he returned from the bathroom, Ben still hadn't moved.

"Mind if I check?" Tony asked him.

Ben half opened his eyes. "I guess checking would be a smart idea."

"Yeah." Tony inspected the view with care -- scenic even under these circumstances -- as he worked. Everything seemed okay. "You might want to sit down carefully tomorrow."

"No more than I'd expect."

Tony smacked the back of the nearest, nicely muscled thigh. That earned him a snort.

As Tony went to ditch the washcloth, Ben rolled over, yawned, and stretched. Then he winced.

"You sure you're okay?" Tony called back.

"I am," Ben said, sounding drowsy. "It felt... right. Was right." He'd been drifting all through the clean-up. The long trip and new town craziness must be catching up with him at last.

"Yeah? Don't tell that to the Elder You-Know-Who Brethren." Tony went back over to the bed. "Come on, come on. Park between the sheets, here. And give me that pillow."

With Ben's weary cooperation, it wasn't hard to move him under the covers. As he leaned close to check that all was well, Tony thought Ben had dozed off until the guy suddenly reached up to curve a hand around the back of Tony's neck and tug down. Their kiss was swift and sweet, but scorching all the same.

"'Night, love. God bless," Ben murmured. Then, in the way they'd all had to learn in the hedgerows of Normandy, he was out like a light.

Straightening, Tony was astonished to realize he was blushing. He shook his head hard before he turned to pick his way across any creaking floorboards toward the door to the outside stairs, pillow still tucked under his arm.

Looked like you could get the boy out of the Brethren, but you couldn't get all the Brethren out of the boy. But that was okay. There was enough space in this town full of artists and loonies for Ben to be whatever he wanted to be.

Besides, Tony had enjoyed having someone else shoveling out the mush for a change.

 

IV

"Watch it," Tony muttered. Ben had just clipped him in the knee with an elbow getting into position, and Tony had almost knocked over their fake frame.

"Sorry," Ben said, soft and apologetic.

"That had better not be _talking_ I hear," a wrathful voice called up from what would soon be the front-most bench on the festival grounds. "Especially given how _rarely_ great paintings indulge in chitchat." Wow. This year's director of the Pageant could give Joey a run for his money in the fey sarcasm races.

Tony and Ben froze into place. The lights came up. Ta-da: St. Francis and the angel. The stage manager started reading narration, sounding bored. Loving ministration, Tony told himself. That was the expression. Loving ministration, loving ministration--

After what seemed like about a thousand years even if it was only ninety seconds -- and what was it about holding still on stage that made a guy itch so much? -- the lights went back down.

"Better, I suppose," the voice of authority said with seeming reluctance.

Tony and Ben made their break for the stage left wings while the getting was good. From stage right, they could hear the noises of a giggle of Greek muses spilling out of the wings and onto the stage even over the rumble of scenery shifting in the dim. Turned out, the theme of this year's Pageant was Inspiration throughout the Ages.

When they got over to the section of ragged grass where the costume ladies held court, Tony was surprised to see Joey was waiting for them. "Robes fit well, gentlemen?" he asked, his voice hushed.

"Great," Tony said, also trying to keep it soft, and "Fine, thank you," Ben added, a little less cautiously.

"Was that more _talking_?" the voice of authority inquired wrathfully from elsewhere in the darkness.

Tony grabbed Joey's arm and quickly towed him off, Ben in train. "So, what's up?" he asked, after he'd gotten Joey over by one of the eucalyptus trees where the ladies had set up a lamp so you could check your costume in a battered full-length mirror.

"Dinner?" Joey asked. "I seem to remember asking you last night about your both coming over to dinner."

After a second, Tony took a deep breath and said, "Up to Ben. He's the guest, at least until he starts working and pays me some rent." Joey's lips twitched. "Cut that out."

"No, no," Joey said. "You were very subtle. That was a, ah, practical and masculine way of describing your present residential situation."

"Gee, thanks." Tony turned to Ben. "He's asking if you want to meet some guys. Some of the local guys. The dinner in question will be stag."

"Oh, sure," Ben said, very gravely. "That would be great. Juicy T-bones and maybe some coleslaw, some cold brews all around, and they can explain why there aren't any good football teams on this coast. Poker afterwards?"

Joey snickered, trying to keep it quiet.

"Great. I'm surrounded by wits," Tony told him. "Mr. Smart-ass, here, doesn't even drink."

"I'll remember that. My house, Thursday at seven?

Tony shrugged. "Sure."

"He already knows the way," Joey told Ben.

"I had assumed that was the case," Ben said, his smile a little crooked and a lot sweet. 

"Good boy," Joey said with an approving smile of his own. Then his expression shifted into a frown as he reached out to grip the fabric of Ben's cowl between thumb and forefinger. "Tsk. Has this seam worked loose already? I'd better delegate Darlene to fix you after rehearsal." Without another word, he turned and bustled off. 

Tony looked at Ben, who was still smiling. He wanted to lean in and plant a quick one on Ben's lips, but that wasn't happening in public, not even in Laguna Beach. Instead he asked, "You sure you're ready for this?" 

"Hmm." Ben pretended to consider. "After years of thought and prayer, not to mention a beach and a bed--" At Tony's glare, he trailed off into a grin before continuing, "Anyhow, I'm not sure how well it suits me, but I do know I'm getting awfully fond of lavender. I guess it won't hurt trying out a little more."

"St. Francis! Angel! Get back on stage, and let's do that transition again before I am forced to _strangle_ Erato!" 

"Not, I imagine, that anyone will notice more lavender around here," Ben said, and rolled his eyes without losing the smile.

Yeah, Tony was pretty much done with trying to be sensible. After all, what had good sense earned him aside from a stint in some drapery, complete with pigeon wings? The time had come to revisit his original inclinations and see where those got the two of them. It was beginning to look like, in this crazy town, even sentimental mush might prove to have its place.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story for anyone who's ever lived in a small scenic town with a large cultural event and so understands Tony's stubborn determination to ignore everything going on around him in favor of marking down cans of corned beef hash. Given his attitude, I've skipped lightly over the simultaneously occurring Festival of the Arts aspect of all of this madness. It, and the Pageant of the Masters, are still A Very Big Deal in Laguna Beach each year although not verging on Bohemianism in quite the way they were reported to back in the day.
> 
> The story was originally published commercially through a small press, but all rights have reverted to me, where they remain. The usual fandom, not-for-profit permissions apply. Given the obvious fannish influences and tropes, it seemed possible to post it here. I hope you enjoy!


End file.
